Sunday was my first mass back at St. George’s. I’d forgotten how much I love that cathedral – the stone and wood and arches, the balcony below the bell tower, and the Stations of the Cross in Palestinian ceramic tiles.
At coffee hour I met a group of English pilgrims from Salisbury. One woman, in particular, was very stereotypically (and wonderfully) British: sun hat, slightly wonky teeth, and dry, almost ironic accent. When I complained about my experience of singledom profiling during airport security, she responded, “well, twelve years ago when I was leaving, it was just after Rabin had been assassinated, I was neither young nor single, but I was traveling alone. They interrogated me for three-quarters of an hour, and then…they didn’t even apologize.” She shook her head and pursed her lips in a way that I imagine only British women can.
On Saturday I met an EAPPI volunteer from Northern Ireland. We were sitting in a friend’s tourist shop, and the friend, Marwan, was saying, “Oh, Stephanie’s mother or grandmother is from Ireland.”
“No, it’s actually much farther back than that.”
“And do you know where in Ireland they were from?” he asked politely.
“Cork.”
“Ah,” he nodded, “everyone’s from Cork.”
As I descended the bus from Jerusalem to Bethlehem, a young man caught up with me and said, “You’re not from here either, are you?”
The thing was, he sort of looked like he was from here, and I felt very confused. “No, I’m American,” and I went through the 30-second spiel of what I’m doing here.
Meeting a friend later, I asked him what I could do to stop being recognized as a foreigner before I’d even opened my mouth.
He just laughed.
1 comment:
Your use of the word wonky made me smile. The cathedral sounds quite nice.
Most places in the world, you'd have difficulty passing for a local ;).
If it makes you feel better, I'm occasionally asked where I'm from by other Alabamians. So I don't even pass for a local in my home town.
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